Avenging Angel
by Luxio Nyx
Summary: "I may be on the side of the angels, but don't think for one second that I am one of them." John Watson has always kept Sherlock on the side of the angels... What happens when John Watson is gone? Johnlock with hints of Mystrade.
1. Chapter 1

**Hi! So, I've basically been checking out the Sherlock fandom for a while now, and decided to try writing something myself. Ah, just so you guys know, this is my first Sherlock fanfic, so I'm really sorry for any OOCness or, you know, anything that doesn't make sense at all.**

**Note: I do not own BBC's Sherlock… Actually, I don't really own anything at all.**

**Enjoy!**

"…We really need to start locking the door."

"Agreed."

John Watson stared down at the man that was currently curled up on the floor of their sitting room, his brow furrowing in a mixture of disapproval and restrained amusement when his flatmate bent to poke the unconscious man with the bow of his violin.

"Exhaustion," Sherlock Holmes stated flatly. "His shirt is stained with beer but it's obvious that he wasn't drunk, although he did do a lot of running based on the state of his shoes. Judging by the rough texture of his hands and the traces of sawdust on his clothes, he works with wood, although I'm not entirely sure what his profession is- probably carpentry, though. He's not married, but there is a woman in his life occasionally." Sherlock paused for a moment, his eyebrows raised in mild interest as he knelt closer to the man. "John…"

"Hm?" John tore his gaze away from the man's slack features and glanced at Sherlock, his cheeks reddening slightly when he met the taller man's intense blue gaze. "Sorry, what?"

Sherlock pouted and gestured impatiently towards the man beside him. "Call Lestrade. Tell him that we've found the man responsible for the break-in on Church Street last month, although I suspect that he already knows the gentleman's identity seeing as he's recently escaped from the Met."

"I- Wait, what? How did you-?"

"His trousers," Sherlock stated flatly. The consulting detective got to his feet and stalked into the kitchen without another glance in the stranger's direction, his lips pursed as he glanced down at the bottles and petri dishes that had been arranged on the surface of the kitchen table next to last night's take out. "Really, John, I thought I told you not to touch anything."

"How else was I supposed to make room for the take out? And what the hell do you mean 'his trousers'? What about them?"

Sherlock sighed heavily and rolled his eyes towards the ceiling, his slim fingers already moving to nudge a petri dish into its original position.

"The man has several white hairs on his trousers that match those left by Mrs. Woodson's dog. Mrs. Woodson claimed that she found the dog chewing on a bone next to her safe when she returned from her weekly shopping trip and discovered the robbery," he explained. "…John, I'm afraid that we need more milk."

"Sherlock, wait-"

The man groaned suddenly, making John jump. Sherlock glanced up from his experiment as the man slowly pulled himself to into a sitting position, his dark brown eyes flickering across the messy flat before focusing on the room's shorter inhabitant.

"Ah… 'morning," he greeted hoarsely. "Don't suppose you could make me a quick cuppa? I didn't have a chance to stomach much last night, I'm afraid."

"Of course," Sherlock replied immediately. "John?"

John glared at the detective and slowly made his way to the stove, his eyes flashing warily towards the stranger as he placed the kettle on the burner.

"…Rough night, then?" he called cautiously.

The man snorted. "You could say that, yeah. S'not every night you run through most of London."

"Indeed," Sherlock murmured disinterestedly. "And, of course, it's not every night that a man escapes from the police, is it?"

The man stiffened and glanced at Sherlock with obvious surprise. After a moment, he forced a stiff grin onto his lips.

"Huh," he grunted. "So you _are_ as good as they say."

"Better," Sherlock snapped. "I'm assuming you knew about the risk you were taking in coming here."

"Risk?" the man repeated. John couldn't help but notice that the stranger's muscles had tensed at Sherlock's words, although the strained smile remained on his face.

"Yes, risk. You must have known that the Met came to us after your last break-in, and yet you decided to come here. You let down your guard when you fell asleep in our sitting room- don't use exhaustion as an excuse," he snapped when the man opened his mouth to interject. "You've obviously gone longer without sleep. Now: How did you know that we wouldn't call the police before you could speak with us?"

The stranger was silent for a long moment, his dark eyes locked intently on the floor in front of him. Finally, he raised his head and looked into Sherlock's intense blue-grey eyes, his jaw clenched in silent determination as he pulled himself to his feet.

"Because I've heard the rumors about you," the man said slowly. "And I've read the doctor's blog. I know that you never turn your back on a case if it's good enough."

"And you thought that your problem would be good enough to hold my attention?" Sherlock asked flatly.

"Yes," the man said simply.

Sherlock frowned then, his expression thoughtful. He glanced over his shoulder when the kettle screamed, his eyes following John as the doctor hastily prepared three cups of tea.

"John?" the detective called casually.

John Watson hesitated before looking up at his friend, his expression carefully neutral under the taller man's probing gaze. The stranger in the sitting room glanced between the two men with undisguised curiosity, his hands clenching and unclenching into fists as the two friends continued to regard each other in silence.

Finally, John turned away. Sherlock's lips quirked into something that could almost be called a smile and he glanced over at the stranger.

"You have five minutes," he stated. "Don't be boring."

The man heaved a small sigh of relief and nodded.

"My name is Jack Sheppard," he began slowly. "I work for a carpenter on Blackstock Road-."

"And I suppose you rob houses as a hobby?" Sherlock sighed, his eyes darkening with boredom once again.

Sheppard's lips twisted into a self-deprecating grin and he shrugged. "Carpentry don't pay much, you know?"

"When did you start?" John asked quietly. The doctor moved forward to hand the man a cup of tea, his shoulders lifting in a small shrug when Sheppard expressed his thanks.

"5 months ago," Sheppard replied. "A man came up to me right after I got off work, said he- said he knew what my girl did in her free time. He told me that he was getting tired of her work, said she was getting too sloppy. He told me he would keep the Met off of our tails if I would agree to take up a few jobs for him on the side."

Sherlock had abandoned his experiments by now, his attention now focused entirely on the man in their sitting room. He nodded once when John pressed a hot cup of tea into is hands, his lean shoulder braced against the wall that separated the kitchen from the rest of the flat.

"This 'girl' of yours," Sherlock said slowly. "She was working for this man when you met her?"

"Aye," Sheppard admitted. "I didn't know about it until then, although I had been wonderin' about her little trips every week or so. We had a bit of a discussion after that, if you can imagine."

"Indeed," Sherlock mused. He waved his hand in Sheppard's general direction, his eyes faraway. "Continue."

"There ain't much more to tell, to be honest," Sheppard admitted. "I agreed to work for him to keep Liz safe- that's my girl, in case you didn't know. Apparently he liked my work because the jobs kept comin', but this last job didn't suit his fancy. I think it was because of-"

"The dog," Sherlock finished wearily. "By not killing Mrs. Woodson's dog, you made a mistake. The animal wouldn't have allowed a stranger near it, but it knew who you were since your 'girl' had been working in Mrs. Woodson's home for several weeks as a maid. I'd wager that you often came to pick the girl up from work and, given that you have a fondness for dogs, probably made yourself a favourite of the creature by bringing it treats."

"Brilliant," John whispered, earning himself a brief grin from the detective.

"…Yeah," Sheppard agreed slowly, his eyes flickering between the two with increased curiousity. "Well, next thing I know, the Met's knockin' down my door and bringin' me in for questionin', said they were doing it as part of an investigation into a recent crime, but…" Sheppard's voice trailed off and he turned away, his hands clenching once again into fists.

"They accused you of the wrong crime," Sherlock murmured.

John shot Sherlock a sharp glance, only to be ignored as the detective drew closer to Sheppard, his lips quirking upwards into a semi-triumphant smirk when the other man simply stared at him.

"You weren't arrested by the Yard because of the robbery on Church Street," Sherlock said slowly. "Another man was arrested for the crime about a week ago by a new DI from Wolverhampton."

"Aye," Sheppard agreed warily. "Well, you can imagine my surprise when they haul me into their headquarters and this bloke informs me that I've been arrested for murder. I'd never even seen the victim 'til they showed me his picture. I tried to explain all this to the man who was interrogatin' me, only to realize that he's the same fella that approached me five months ago and got me into this crime business in the first place."

"Sorry, what?" John demanded, his eyes narrowing as the man's words slowly sank in. "An officer at the Met- he's the one that got you into crime?"

Sheppard nodded solemnly.

"What happened then?" Sherlock asked.

"I was shocked, obviously. Thought that I had been set up, and the idea didn't exactly sit well with me," Sheppard continued, his broad face flushed with anger. "I started to yell, tried to draw attention to myself in the hopes that someone else would come in. A few o' the other officers started to come towards us, too, only they got distracted by some commotion. Well, I figured that I wasn't goin' to get help from anyone else, so I launched myself at the bastard that was interrogatin' me before he could say anythin' else and I made a dash for the door."

"Seriously? Just like that?" John muttered.

"Really, John, it's the Yard," Sherlock pointed out. "Did you expect anything else? Please continue, Mr. Sheppard."

"I managed to lose the men they sent after me and made my way here. I figured if anyone could help me prove my case, it would be Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock nodded stiffly and rocked back onto his heels, his fingers pressed together just beneath his chin. John felt a small smile make its way to his lips at the sight of the detective's 'thinking pose', only to have the smile slip from his features as he went over Sheppard's tale again.

"…It's odd that one of the Yard could be so corrupt," he mused slowly. "You'd think Lestrade would have-"

Sherlock leapt at the television, causing John to break off in a yelp. Sheppard scrambled backwards as the detective came dangerously-close to slamming him into the floor and watched the taller man fiddle with the television with wide eyes, his eyebrows raised in surprise.

"Wha-?" he began.

"Shut up," Sherlock snapped. "John, come over here. Look at this."

"Sherlock, what- Oh my God."

"What?" Sheppard demanded impatiently, his eyes flickering back and forth between the suddenly-still doctor and the detective, who was now pacing the floor of the flat, his fingers flying across the keys of a cellphone before he raised the device to his ear.

John forced himself to turn away from the television set at Sheppard's question, his blue eyes dark with an odd combination of confusion and understanding.

"I think I know what caused your commotion at the Yard," he whispered before gesturing towards the television.

Sheppard frowned and focused on the headline that was now pasted across the small screen.

**Fistfight Erupts in New Scotland Yard. Scandal Erupts as DI is Placed on Temporary Leave.**

"I don't understand," Sheppard whispered.

"Lestrade is gone," Sherlock snapped, his expression twisting as he murmured a quick reply into the phone that was pressed against his ear. "He's been replaced."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Sherlock turned his back on the two other inhabitants of the flat, his fingers drumming anxiously against the surface of his cellphone while he waited for Mycroft's assistant to put his brother on the line. He felt his muscles tense automatically when Mycroft's voice came to him over the crackling speakers, his voice carefully neutral.

"What is it, Sherlock?"

"A man just came into our flat claiming that a corrupt member of the Met got him involved in a crime ring," Sherlock replied curtly. "And now I'm hearing that Lestrade has been removed from office 'temporarily'. What's going on?"

"As much as I would love to tell you, I'm afraid that the details are rather unclear for me as well," Mycroft shot back. "All I know is that Lestrade's position has been… compromised."

Sherlock raised his eyebrow, his lips parting slightly as the meaning behind Mycroft's words dawned on him. "Your relationship-"

"Apparently I underestimated the power of gossip," the British Government interrupted sharply. There was a pause as Mycroft took a long, steadying breath. "One of the DIs asked Gregory about… us. From what I observed, he implied that Gregory was using my… position to improve his own."

"Based on the news reports, I'm going to assume that Lestrade didn't take that implication very well," Sherlock mused, his lips quirking up into a small smirk when he caught sight of the video footage that was currently splashed across the screen of his television. "He has a good right-hook, by the way."

"Indeed." Sherlock could almost hear the answering smirk in his brother's voice.

"Who brought it up?" the detective asked quietly, his grey-blue eyes narrowing as he tried to focus on the blurry figures presented in the footage.

"DI Wild. He's a new arrival from-"

"Wolverhampton," Sherlock finished dryly. "Incidentally, he's also the man who arrested the wrong man for the Church Street robbery."

"Church Street?" Mycroft repeated, his voice tinged with the tiniest hint of surprise. "I thought that was Gregory's case. He came home complaining about your conduct the day he went to you for help."

"Apparently Wild took over later on," Sherlock murmured. "_Idiot_… I should have paid more attention to the case. I thought that they would be able to handle everything after I told them that the thief was the maid's boyfriend… It's not like there was more than one maid."

"It doesn't matter now," Mycroft interrupted wearily. "The damage has already been done. However, I imagine that further damage can be avoided if we move quickly."

"Obviously," Sherlock snapped. "Where is Lestrade?"

"Prison," Mycroft murmured, his calm façade breaking for the briefest of moments to reveal the raw fury simmering underneath. "I'm working on arranging his release as we speak. Anthea should be able to-"

"John and I will pick him up once you've arranged for the release," the younger brother broke in impatiently. Sherlock hesitated before speaking again, his mouth twisting into a grimace as he forced his next words past his lips. "I… assume that he will be staying with you."

"Yes, for now," Mycroft replied easily.

"I may be calling you later, just so you know. Keep an eye on the other members of the Met until I can follow them myself."

"It's already being done."

Sherlock pulled the phone away from his ear several seconds after the call had ended, his eyes closing for a brief moment before he turned back to his companions.

"John," he called, ignoring the small thrill that went through him every time his friend's name.

John turned immediately at the sound of his name, his blue eyes alert and eager despite the flush of anger that had spread over his cheeks the longer he stared at the television set. Sherlock's hands clenched automatically around the smooth cell phone in his hands as he met the doctor's gaze; he forced himself to focus on the wall above John's head, struggling to keep the blood from rushing into his pale cheeks.

"That was Mycroft," he muttered. "We're going to pick up Lestrade from prison."

John's mouth curved up into a half-hearted grin, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully as they studied the taller man's features.

"That's a sentence I never thought I would hear in my life," he muttered. "How's Mycroft taking it?"

"Badly," Sherlock replied shortly. "Mr. Sheppard," he added when the man in question shifted uneasily. "I would advise you to find some place to rest for a while- possibly a friend's. If you would like to contact this 'Liz' of yours, leave her name and the address of her favourite café along with whatever message you wish to pass along in a sealed envelope. I will ensure that one of my other associates gets word to her before the day is over."

"Don't ask," John added in a hushed voice when Sheppard shot him a surprised glance. "We'll let you know if anything changes, although you should know that you will still go to prison after this is over."

"As long as it's for a crime that I actually committed," Sheppard muttered darkly. "I'm not exactly the most humble person, but I'm not about to take credit for something I didn't do."

John chuckled and hesitated for a moment before clasping the other man's hand. "Take care of yourself, then."

The criminal nodded his thanks. "Should I send you the address when I've found a place, or-?"

"We'll know," Sherlock interrupted pleasantly. "Do avoid the main streets, Sheppard. As daft as the Yard is, I'm not entirely convinced that you would be able to escape a second time."

Sheppard nodded stiffly and took the paper and pen that John handed him. Sherlock waited until he had finished the message and left before he grabbed the letter and tucked it smoothly into a waiting envelope.

"We'll give this to Raz on our way to prison," he stated dismissively. "He should be spraying something in the alley next to us at the moment- would you mind giving this to him, John? He's been eager to see you since our last meeting."

"Oh, you mean when he got me saddled with an ASBO?" John muttered.

Sherlock merely waited, his lips twitching slightly as he struggled not to smirk. After a few moments, John sighed and snatched the letter from the detective's hand, his own mouth curved into a small, exasperated smile.

"If I get arrested again, I swear to God…" he muttered, his voice fading into a vague mumble as he made his way down the stairs.

Sherlock watched him go and finally allowed his smile to flicker across his features, only to have it fade moments later when he felt the blood rush into his cheeks once again.

_No time for sentiment… I need to focus on the case. Sentiment is useless, it would only get in the way…_

**Well, that was a little easier than the first chapter… Please let me know if anything is off or if anyone is acting too OOC.**

**Also, brief note, I have no idea what my update schedule will be like. School is starting again tomorrow, and I have two other fanfics that I need to work on, but I will definitely try and get an update in at least once a week.**

**Please review and let me know what you guys think! **


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Lestrade grimaced as he was led out of his cell, his dark eyes dull with exhaustion and irritation. A violet bruise had spread across the left side of his face, it's dark color painfully bright against the grey pallor of the DI's skin. John forced himself to smile at the man, his gut clenching with a toxic mixture of icy concern and hot, furious anger.

"Afternoon, Greg," he called, his lean hands curling into fists as an officer stepped forward to remove the cuffs from Lestrade's wrists.

"Afternoon already?" Lestrade muttered. "Huh. Guess I lost track of time."

John managed to chuckle and turned to follow the DI towards the prison exit. "That's only supposed to happen when we go out for a pint, you know." He paused when the door shut behind him, his eyes narrowing in the bright sunlight. "Bloody hell, where did Sherlock put the car?"

"You let him drive?"

John shrugged. "Trust me, it's easier that way. He's a right pain in the arse sometimes."

Lestrade snorted. "You mean all the time."

"And yet, I'm the one who is picking you up from prison," Sherlock called, his lips curving upwards into a smirk as he swept up to the duo. The consulting detective paused to consider Lestrade, his pale blue-grey eyes darkening when they landed on the bruise that marked the older man's skin. "…Mycroft is worried."

Lestrade groaned and ran a hand through his silver hair, his eyes softening slightly. John felt his gut clench again at the sight of the inspector's expression, his eyes tightening in quiet alarm as bitter envy ran through his veins. He shook himself and turned away, his cheeks flushing when Sherlock sent him a concerned look. The doctor shrugged and hurried towards the car that had been parked at the side of the road, not even bothering to respond to Lestrade's confused call. Sherlock would be able to come up with an explanation… He always did.

*Johnlock*Johnlock*Johnlock*

John and Lestrade stared with obvious surprise when Mycroft himself opened the door to his townhouse in Belgravia, his brow furrowed with the smallest hint of anxiety above his immaculately-pressed suit. Sherlock chuckled flatly at their surprise and brushed past his brother with a barely-perceptible nod, unable to completely suppress the flash of jealousy that went through him as Mycroft reached out to clasp Lestrade's shoulder, his thin fingers reaching up to brush gently against the inspector's bruise.

_Not now… No time for sentiment… _

"Have you found anything?" Sherlock called over his shoulder. The detective stalked into his brother's living room and silently flung himself onto the nearest sofa, his lips twisting into an apologetic grimace when John shot him an exasperated look over Mycroft's shoulder. The British Government simply sighed and gently led Lestrade to another sofa, his free hand waving dismissively in John's general direction when the doctor hesitated.

"Take a seat, John," Mycroft murmured. "We have a lot to discuss."

"What's going on?" Lestrade demanded. "Is this about Wild being a bastard, or-?"

"I'm afraid that the situation at the Met is more complicated than some damaging gossip, Inspector," Sherlock muttered. "Earlier today, shortly after your… argument-" Lestrade's expression twisted at the detective's words, earning the younger Holmes a pointed glare from his older sibling. "-John and I were visited by Jack Sheppard, the man I originally implicated in the Church Street robbery, although I noticed that Wild had decided to ignore my advice and arrest another man instead. Sheppard told us that he had been arrested the previous evening for murder, even though he had never met the victim. He seemed to believe that he had been set up, particularly since the man who interrogated him at the Met was apparently the same man that had introduced him to the crime world five months before. Sheppard claimed that he managed to escape the Yard during your fight with Wild."

"Hang on," Lestrade interrupted. "Are you telling me that one of my men is a criminal?"

"Not just a criminal," Sherlock corrected him. "At least one of your men is involved in a complicated crime syndicate that allows thieves and murderers to commit crimes without fear of punishment while others are arrested in their place."

"So, what, innocent people take the hit for criminals?" John broke in, his features hardening with anger.

"No," Sherlock murmured. "_Criminals_ take the hit for other criminals. Those who aren't part of the syndicate, those who make mistakes, those who voice concerns or say the wrong thing at the wrong time… _Those_ are the criminals who get arrested. Sheppard became a thief to save his lover after she made a mistake, and he was arrested because of his own slip. Who knows, maybe in a few weeks the man that interrogated him will slip as well and be charged with his own crime…"

"That is hardly helpful now," Mycroft interrupted calmly. "What matters the most to me is finding the man who is in charge of everything so that we can ensure Gregory's safety in the Yard."

"Now wait," Lestrade protested, his features flushing slightly at Mycroft's words. "Why the hell am I involved in any of this? I didn't know of any crime syndicate before this."

"That's because you're an idiot," Sherlock huffed.

"You didn't know about it either," John pointed out quietly.

Sherlock glared at the doctor, his expression softening almost immediately when the shorter man finally crossed the room to sit at the detective's side on the couch.

"Regardless," Sherlock muttered. "You were getting close to discovering the organization. Even if you are… normal, you couldn't have failed to notice that the wrong men and women were being arrested, especially since you rely almost exclusively on my expertise on half of your cases."

"Your humility is staggering," John muttered under his breath, his lips quirking upwards in response to the detective's own grin.

"Indeed," Mycroft huffed. "I began having Wild and Mr. Field- the man who interrogated your friend earlier- followed shortly after the incident at the Yard. They are both currently involved with a case in Whitechapel involving a bomb threat. Sherlock-"

"Give us the address and have a taxi called," Sherlock snapped. "John and I will go down to investigate the case. I assume that someone familiar to us will be present?"

"Donovan should be down there," Lestrade broke in. "It is her division."

Sherlock groaned and slowly pulled himself to his feet, his gaze flickering down to John's blue eyes for a brief moment.

"…Are you ready?" he asked quietly. "It could be dangerous."

John smirked and nodded, the sight of his smile enough to cause the detective's heart to skip a beat. Sherlock chuckled and made his way towards the door, choosing to ignore the knowing smirk that Mycroft sent his way.

What did Mycroft know, anyways?

**Hey! I'm baaacckk! Sorry for my awful updating schedule, guys. The school play is coming up, and my free time is seriously dying before my eyes, lol. Anyways, hopefully no one was too OOC (I'm kind of wondering about Mycroft, but I think he's actually a real softy deep down, lol).**


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Over the course of his friendship with the world's only consulting detective, John had come to learn that it was incredibly rare for Sherlock Holmes to be surprised- or, rather, it was incredibly rare for Sherlock to _show_ that he was surprised.

This knowledge made it even more entertaining to see the shocked expression on Sherlock's face when Sall Donovan literally threw her arms around hi the minute he slipped under the police tape.

"Thank God," she groaned. "Someone who's not a complete _idiot_."

Sherlock stiffened and shot John a panicked glance over the woman's shoulder, his pale blue eyes silently pleading with the doctor to save him. John smirked and shrugged, his smile widening when the panicked look morphed into a glare.

"Er… Donovan," Sherlock muttered. "…Please get off."

Donovan hastily released the consulting detective, her lips curling into an automatic sneer.

"Sorry… Don't get used to it, freak," she snapped.

"That will never happen, I assure you," he murmured under his breath. He cleared his throat and deftly brushed a few imaginary flecks of dirt off of his coat, his gaze travelling over Donovan to take in the frazzled police clustered together behind her. "What's happening here?"

Donovan grimaced and glanced over her shoulder as well, her jaw clenched. "Bomb threat. Field, one of the men who were interrogating that Sheppard fellow before he escaped, snapped and holed himself up this old factory. He claims he has enough bombs to level the damn thing. Wild-" The Sergeant's sneer became more pronounced as she spoke the other man's name. "Wild has ordered an evacuation of the area while he tries to negotiate with Field. He won't let anyone else into the building except for Hitchen."

"Hitchen?" John prompted.

Donovan shrugged. "He works with Wild. Apparently they're both trying to get a promotion in May, but based on what happened earlier…" She grimaced again and shrugged.

Sherlock frowned and looked over the crowd of policemen again, his eyes zeroing in on a dark-haired man that was currently shouting orders to a group of trembling underlings.

"Right," he muttered. "Donovan, do you think that you could get us into the building?"

Sally stared at him in shock then shook her head, her expression doubtful. "They've got it roped off, and I don't have the authority. You'd need to run it past Wild."

Sherlock frowned and nodded reluctantly, his long legs already propelling him towards the middle of the huddled mass of policemen. John hesitated for a moment, his green eyes flickering towards the alley that divided the doomed building from its neighbors. He glanced back at the consulting detective, his eyes widening when the cellphone in his pocket vibrated.

'There's a side door in the alley. It won't be guarded. –MH'

John sighed and typed a quick reply before pocketing the device and heading towards the door.

'Thanks for asking. Tell Sherlock.'

*Johnlock*Johnlock*Johnlock*

D.I. Wild looked up as Sherlock approached, his thick brow furrowing in exasperated confusion when he noticed Donovan shifting nervously by his side.

"Who's this?" he asked wearily. "I told them that I didn't need any more men on this case."

"I don't work for the Yard," Sherlock interrupted serenely. "And you _do_ need me. My name is Sherlock Holmes."

Wild chuckled wryly and held out his hand, his smile widening slightly when the taller man didn't take it. "Ah, yes. I suppose I should have expected you, Mr. Holmes. Although perhaps you would like to have this conversation about your lover at another-"

"I'm the _other_ Holmes," Sherlock snapped irritably. "My brother's relationship is none of my concern. I'm only here to see what idiotic mistakes you have made so far in your investigation."

Wild frowned and cocked his head to the side, his expression confused. "I'm… sorry?"

"Oh no, don't apologize," Sherlock replied easily. "Everyone else is an idiot, so I suppose you can't help being one as well. Now, about the investigation: I shall need your permission to go and speak with Mr. Field and Mr. Hitchen."

"That's impossible," Wild interrupted. "We can't risk anyone interrupting Hitchen's negotiations with Field. I don't care what kind of authority you or your brother have, no one else is going into that building unless Hitchen states that he needs assistance."

"Why is Hitchen the only one who can negotiate with Field?" Sherlock pressed. "Is that even his division?"

"I- no, but-"

"Who gave him the jurisdiction to negotiate with Field face-to-face?" Sherlock tried again. "Didn't anyone try communicating with him over the phone?"

"We tried that and he refused," Wild snapped. "Field threatened to blow the place up immediately unless we sent Hitchen in to negotiate."

"Why?"

"The hell if I know!" Wild snarled, his brown eyes flashing angrily. Sherlock raised his eyebrows and took a half-step back when he noticed the other man's hands curl into tight fists at his sides. "Apparently Hitchen and Field have some history together or something- I'm not a walking fucking dictionary for Met gossip."

"Really?" Sherlock spat, his careful façade breaking for a brief moment as he flashed the shorter man an icy sneer. "You could have fooled me."

Wild stared at the consulting detective, his broad shoulders heaving with deep, frantic breaths as he tried to regain control of his emotions. After a moment, he turned away, his hand raised in an unmistakable gesture of dismissal.

"Sergeant Donovan," he growled. "Please escort Mr. Holmes off of the premises. We will talk later about your authority to let _amateurs_ in on police investigations."

Sherlock stiffened and moved to object, only to freeze when the phone in Wild's pocket let loose a high-pitched 'ping', his eyes narrowing as the DI removed the device from his pocket and deftly switched the device onto speaker. Wild gestured for a nearby attendant to start taking notes, his eyes still locked on the screen of the sleek black iPhone.

"Hitchen," he began, only to be cut off by a man's panicked voice.

"Get out of there," the man wheezed. "Get the hell out of there. Field isn't controlling the explosives. Wild-"

Bright, searing light erupted in front of them and sent Sherlock flying backwards, his hands flying out automatically in a futile effort to break his fall. Sharp pain seared through his shoulder as it slammed into the cracked concrete, a low groan breaking through his lips in response. A dull, burning sensation spread across the skin of his face and he instinctively turned away from the light that was still onto the insides of his eyelids, another moan breaking through his lips when he found that he was unable to escape its light.

"S-Sherlock?" Donovan's voice slammed into his ringing eardrums, sending jolts of surprise and pain through the injured detective. "H-Hey, freak, are you alright?"

Sherlock grimaced and forced his eyes to open, his teeth clenching as another moan fought to break through his lips. The detective slowly pulled himself into a sitting position, quietly checking to make sure that his limbs were still attached to his body. He glanced around him slowly, his gaze focusing for a brief moment on Wild as the DI was helped to his feet by a bleeding aide covered in grey dust.

"Is anyone dead?" Wild croaked, his voice somehow carrying easily over the rising chaos. "Someone call for an ambulance. I want anybody still able to walk to look for survivors, understood?"

A muted chorus of agreements and groans met Wild's announcement. Sherlock frowned and struggled to stand, his lips twisting into a grimace when Donovan's hand fastened around his shaking arm in an effort to lend support. Donovan glared at him, her lips curled in a similar expression of disgust.

"I'm just being nice, freak," she snapped. "Don't think I'm enjoying this."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and straightened, his breath catching in his throat when the movement sent another flash of pain through his shoulder.

_I'll have John check it out later_, he thought.

_John_.

"Where's John?" he demanded suddenly, causing Donovan to jump.

The police sergeant shot Sherlock a sideways glance, her brow furrowed in confusion.

"What?" she asked.

"John," Sherlock growled. "Where's John?"

Donovan frowned and glanced back to where she had last seen the doctor, her dark eyes roving carefully over the tangled mass of newly-arrived medics and injured police officers.

"He's probably helping with the injured," she mused hesitantly. "Do you want me to go and-?"

"Find him," Sherlock snapped.

Donovan sighed and slowly released the injured detective, her eyes narrowing for a moment as she checked to make sure that he wasn't going to fall over. After a moment, the sergeant turned and hurried towards the knot of medical personnel. Sherlock watched her go, unable to ignore the icy fear that was beginning to coil in the pit of his stomach. He jumped suddenly when he felt his cellphone vibrate, his slender fingers immediately plucking the device from his pocket.

'I'm sorry, Sherlock. –MH'

"For what?" the younger Holmes growled. He frowned when he saw that there was another unread message and hastily flipped back to the previous text. He froze, his eyes locked on the words that had turned him to ice and trapped the breath in his lungs.

_Nononononono…. Not John… Not John, not him… Please…_

'John has gone into the building. Try and catch up to him as soon as you can. –MH'

_No… John._

**Hey guys! I finally got an update up, thank goodness, lol. Er… I suppose I should say sorry for the cliffhanger but I'm actually not, so~**

**Please review and let me know what you think, okay? I swear I'll have an update as soon as possible! **


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

*Five Minutes Earlier*

John Watson hesitated before ducking into the darkened alleyway, his green eyes flickering back to the throbbing, clamoring mass of policemen that he had left behind. He could barely make out Sherlock's towering, slender form from where he stood.

_Doesn't look like he's coming just yet_, he thought wryly. _Probably going to make an ass of himself first..._

John couldn't keep himself from smiling at the thought of Sherlock's interaction with the bastard that had gotten Lestrade thrown in prison. He took a deep breath and forced himself to pull open the dark, slightly-rusted metal door that was built into the side of the building, his nose wrinkling automatically as stale, damp air slammed into him. He sighed heavily and searched through his pockets, his jaw clenching in determination when he found a small flashlight.

He swore quietly when the narrow pool of light revealed a set of cracked, worn concrete steps stained black by splotches of black mold and slime. John hesitantly placed his foot on the first step, his free hand clenched around the door frame in case he slipped on the slick surface. After two more hesitant steps, the doctor dared to release the frame and retrieve his gun from where it had been tucked into the waistband of his jeans. He slowly made his way to the bottom of the stairs, his ears straining to hear anything other than the thundering of his heartbeat and the quiet tapping of his shoes against the concrete. He allowed himself to stop at the foot of the stairs and ran his flashlight around the four corners of the room, his eyes focusing on another set of stairs that led up to a second door.

John hurried towards the door and ran up the steps, another silent curse breaking through his lips when he nearly slipped on the second step. His hand closed around the cool metal of the doorknob and he pressed his ear against the smooth wooden surface. A muffled shout reached him through the wood, nearly causing the doctor to storm through the door. John settled for cracking the door open and peeking into a dark, decrepit hallway. His narrowed green eyes could barely make out two shadowy figures that were crouched several feet away, their tense features illuminated by the gentle glow of another flashlight. John frowned and edged further out of the door, his jaw clenching when he saw that the two men were chained together by a pair of handcuffs.

"Let me out of here," one of the figures hissed. "Dammit, Field, don't you understand? This isn't going to help any of us. Let me get you out of here, let me turn him in! I can protect you- I promise, he won't touch you."

The other figure, Field, merely laughed, somehow managing to make the gesture sound like a sob. "Protection? From you? No one can protect me, Hitchen. Not from him. I'm too involved in this, I'm in too deep. Do you even know how many innocents I've helped to lock away? I've even had one or two killed in 'self-defense'."

"And you think that one more won't matter?" Hitchen demanded sharply. "What, you're too afraid to face justice but you aren't afraid to send yourself to hell for suicide and murder?"

Field laughed again, making the other figure flinch. "Hell… You don't know anything about hell, Hitchen. Not until you've worked under _him_."

"Please," Hitchen whispered, his voice breaking. "Please, Field, let me help you. Let me out of here. Henry…Please, I didn't even get to say good-bye to him-."

"I can't," Field interrupted gently. "I'm sorry. He put all of the explosives upstairs, we'd never be able to make it there before they went off."

"…When are they supposed to go off?"

There was a quiet shuffling sound as Field pulled something out of his pocket. John forced himself to stay where he was as Field turned back to Hitchen, his thoughts a jumbled panic as he tried to make sense of everything that the two men had been discussing.

"Is that a phone?" Hitchen's voice asked, his voice slightly muffled by the chaos of John's thoughts.

"He installed an app that would count down the minutes until the bomb went off," Field replied calmly. "…We have less than a minute."

John swore loudly and turned to run back down the stairs. He hesitated and glanced back towards the two shadowy men behind him, barely noticing as Hitchen took advantage of Field's sudden distraction and pried the cellphone out of the other man's grasp.

_I can't leave them here to die_, John thought suddenly. _I can't-_

A rough hand shot out of the darkness behind him and dragged John down the stairs. The doctor yelped and balked, his feet sliding out from under him as he was nearly thrown onto the cold concrete floor. He heard a gruff apology before he was being dragged again, his flailing arms slamming into cold concrete as he tried to pull himself away from the fist that now gripped his shirt collar. John twisted and craned his neck just as his captor released him in order to yank something out of the floor with a low grunt. John scrambled to his feet and tried to run but was quickly grabbed around the waist and pulled back into a wide, heaving chest.

"'m sorry, Doctor," a semi-familiar voice grunted into John's ear. "But we don't have much time."

John stiffened in shock and confusion, another yell breaking through his lips as he was pulled down into a dark hole. The man holding him adjusted his tight grip around the doctor's waist and reached up with his free hand, his grip tightening reflexively around John as he struggled to pull something across the top of the hole.

A half-muffled roar ripped through the stale air, followed immediately by a shockwave that ripped the breath from John's lungs and sent him tumbling into the darkness as he and his captor were thrown backwards by the force of the blast. John felt a brief flash of searing heat brush across his exposed skin before his skull crashed against a cool, hard surface that sent waves of searing pain through his body.

_Sherlock_… he thought dazedly, his mind already slipping into oblivion.

*Johnlock*Johnlock*Johnlock*

"Let me go."

"Mr. Holmes," DI Wild growled exasperatedly as he locked eyes with the eerily-calm detective that he had been forced to bind in handcuffs in the back of the nearest car. "I've already told you, I have several men searching through the rubble right now for any survivors. If your associate is there, we will-."

"He's not my _associate_," Sherlock snarled, his calm façade finally cracking to reveal the raw anger and desperation that he had struggled to hide from the legions of Scotland Yarders that were swarming around him in a chaotic mob. "He is my friend. And so help me, if you do not let join in the search for him, I will personally make your life such a living _hell_ that you will wish that your birth had never even been considered."

Wild blinked, visibly startled by Sherlock's anger. He rallied quickly and leaned closer towards the open window that separated him from the bound detective, his mouth opening as fresh arguments rose to his lips.

"Holmes!"

Wild and Sherlock stiffened and glanced in the direction of Sally Donovan's voice. Sherlock allowed himself a brief flicker of triumph when he caught sight of the irritation in Wild's expression as one of his sergeants brushed past him, a grim Mycroft by her side. The triumph faded immediately when Sherlock caught sight of the mournful look that Donovan was sending his way through the open window, her lips trembling faintly as she waited for the frustrated Wild to free Sherlock.

Mycroft shot Wild a contemptuous look over Sherlock's shoulder, his navy blue eyes flashing.

"We'll be in touch," he assured the shorter man coolly, his knuckles whitening around the handle of his umbrella.

Before Wild could comment, Mycroft turned and steered Sherlock away from the car. Donovan hurried after the brothers, her fingers clenching and unclenching into fists at her sides.

"Sergeant Donovan," Mycroft murmured. "If you would be so kind as to tell Sherlock…"

Donovan bit her lip and nodded slowly, the color draining from her cheeks.

"I- Sherlock, I'm sorry-," she began.

"Tell me," Sherlock interrupted coldly, barely able to disguise the desperate gleam in his ice-blue eyes as he looked down at the policewoman, frantically searching her features for a sign that his world wasn't about to come crashing down around him.

Donovan took a deep, shaking breath and forced herself to meet his gaze.

"They found a third body in the rubble," she said slowly. "It's badly burned, and they took it to Bart's to see if they could use dental records to identify it, but…"

"What?" Sherlock pressed. He didn't care that he already knew the answer; he needed to hear it, needed to watch the words leave the woman's lips. He needed to know that what he hoped for wasn't simply improbably: he had to know that it was impossible.

"We're pretty sure it's John's," Donovan said slowly. She hesitated and glanced over her shoulder before pulling a small, wrapped package from the folds of her tattered, filthy trench coat. She pressed the bundle into Sherlock's hands and hurried away before he could even think to unwrap it.

Sherlock held his breath as he peeled away the burnt, greasy fabric, noting dimly that the fabric had been ripped from the bottom of the sergeant's jacket. He froze when the fabric slipped away to reveal a scorched British Army Browning L9A1 that was still warm against the detective's skin.

"John…"

*Johnlock*Johnlock*Johnlock*

The first thing Jack Sheppard noticed when he returned to consciousness was the pain in his arm.

Sheppard swore and slowly pulled himself into a sitting position, only to groan and slump back onto the ground when another flash of pain went through his abdomen. He gritted his teeth and pulled himself up again, struggling to ignore the pain. His eyes strained against the thick darkness around him, his other hand groping blindly along the ground. He froze when he fingers brushed against the soft firmness of another body, his thoughts flying immediately to the doctor that had fallen with him.

"…Doctor Watson?" he called hesitantly.

Silence.

Sheppard's heart started racing and he brushed his fingers across the doctor's prone body, searching frantically for the shorter man's wrist. Jack breathed a small sigh of relief when his fingertips fastened around a weak, sluggish pulse before moving up in what he hoped was the direction of John Watson's lips. A faint, warm breath brushed against Jack's skin and he pulled away, finally allowing himself to relax slightly.

The thief cringed when another flash of brutal pain ripped through him and cast another blind glance around him, searching for a hint of light in the darkness.

Nothing.

"Shit," he groaned. He glanced back in the general direction of the unconscious doctor. "Looks like we're a bit stuck, mate."

John Watson made no reply.

**Hey! Weeee, I finally got this out~! Er, a few quick notes here:**

**1: I actually have no idea how to survive an explosion, so if John and Sheppard's method wouldn't actually work in real life… Eh, it worked here.**

**2: I also don't know how a British Army Browning L9A1 would be after an explosion so, again… Eh.**

**3: Sorry if anyone in this chapter seemed a little OOC… Please let me know if you find anything seriously wrong with this, okay? Or, you know, just review because you want to, because you think this is awesome, because you want to yell at me for… stuff, because you want to rant about how shows like Sherlock have totally made you obsessed and ripped your heart out, because you want to sob over how cruel Steven Moffat is and how he is secretly the devil…**

***cough* anyways~ Thanks to all the people who read/reviewed this story. You guys are awesome! :D**


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Gregory opened the door before Mycroft could even reach out to touch the smooth, polished brass of his doorknob, his sharp eyes flashing between the two Holmes's brothers with a shrewd intelligence that still sent thrills down the British Government's spine. Lestrade's eyes widened after a brief moment and he stumbled back, his firm lips twisting in confusion and dread.

"…Where's John?" he asked quietly.

Sherlock flinched visibly at the mention of the army doctor and shoved past Lestrade without a word, his slim fingers curled into tight fists at his sides. Greg watched the youngest Holmes disappear up the stairs of Mycroft's stylish townhouse, his shoulders tensing slightly when the dull, sharp thud of a slamming door reached him. Mycroft didn't move, his dark blue eyes watching the other man carefully, waiting.

After a long moment, DI Lestrade turned back to his lover, his eyes dark with the sort of tired, heavy grief that was unique to those in his line of work. Mycroft felt his mask slip for the briefest of moments and felt the irrational urge to turn away, unwilling to look at this grief, to know that he was the reason that another name had been added to the list of those who had been taken from the aging policeman.

"John?" Lestrade whispered finally, his voice rougher than Mycroft had ever heard it.

The eldest Holmes brother merely shook his head and focused his gaze on the polished handle of his umbrella, unable to speak. Lestrade sighed heavily and slowly slid down onto the floor. Mycroft reached out automatically to catch his partner, only to find himself falling alongside the aging man.

"God," Lestrade croaked. "Just… God, he was too young… Too- God…"

Mycroft didn't reply. He risked a brief, wary glance towards the DI's face before he turned away, his throat dry and burning with the dull flames of guilt.

"…I'm sorry," the British government croaked. Mycroft stiffened when Lestrade merely wrapped a tense arm around his shoulders, his fingers tightening around his umbrella once again.

"It's alright, My," Lestrade whispered heavily. "I- Well, it's not alright… Not really. Nothing's going to replace John, but… You don't have to apologize. Not for this. Not when it's not your fault."

"Isn't it, though?" Mycroft murmured bitterly.

He could almost hear his lover's brain humming as the DI processed his words, his arm jerking slightly as the policeman drew Mycroft closer to his chest.

"What do you mean?" Greg asked slowly, warily.

Mycroft chuckled dryly and pulled away, his heart skipping a beat when Greg made a small sound of protest at the distance.

"I sent John Watson into the building," he whispered. "I knew that there was a bomb threat, and I sent him in. Sherlock wanted to go in, to investigate, and I was planning on having him follow John in shortly. Some of my men were on standby, waiting until the two of them had gone into the building." Mycroft forced himself to take a deep, steadying breath, refusing to look at the silent DI. "I didn't realize how real the bomb threat was. I didn't know that things would escalate so soon. I made a mistake and… it has cost us greatly."

He heard Lestrade suck in a sharp breath and closed his eyes, unwilling to see the anger, the grief, the… disappointment that would inevitably make its way onto his love's features.

"My," Gregory whispered quietly. "I'm sorry."

Mycroft stiffened and glanced up sharply, his brow furrowing as he stared down at the other man.

"Why are you apologizing to me?" he demanded sharply. "You have done nothing wrong."

Greg rolled his eyes, his lips quirking upwards into a tired, exasperated smile.

"Idiot," he murmured. "I'm not apologizing."

"Then why-?"

"Mycroft Holmes," Lestrade interrupted seriously, his smile fading almost as soon as it had appeared. "Listen to me: Don't you dare blame yourself for what happened to John. I- Everyone makes mistakes, My. God knows that I had my fair share."

"But have those mistakes ever killed someone that you couldn't afford to lose?" Mycroft demanded quietly.

"A few," Lestrade admitted gruffly. "It's hard, My, I know it is, but you can't let it weigh on you. This- all of this, it isn't your fault. You didn't plant the bombs, you didn't set them off."

"John Watson trusted me," Mycroft whispered. "And I killed him. I was careless, I didn't take enough precautions. I failed to protect someone who had willingly placed his life into my hands, someone who I needed to protect for the sake of those dear to me."

"_My_," Lestrade hissed fiercely. "Stop this, just stop. You need to move past this. We all need to keep a clear head if we're going to find the man behind all of this."

"No," Mycroft interrupted quietly.

"We- Sorry?"

"No," Mycroft repeated, more firmly this time. "No, we have done enough, Gregory. _You_ have done enough."

"I haven't _done_ anything!"

"And I won't let you," Mycroft snapped. "I won't let you get involved. The risks are high, Gregory, and I cannot afford another failure, especially not when Sherlock is involved. I cannot afford weakness."

He sensed more than felt Lestrade's sudden tension as that last phrase slipped off of his lips, his mind flickering back to other arguments that had taken place between the two of them when their relationship was still in its earliest stages.

"What are you talking about?" Gregory Lestrade asked warily, although Mycroft could tell that the other man already knew.

"You, Gregory," he said calmly. "You are a weakness that my brother and I cannot afford. Sherlock would not survive another loss like this one."

"And what about you?" Gregory asked quietly, his dark eyes fierce and frightened as they locked onto the British government's unreadable features.

Mycroft shrugged and struggled to force his heart to stop throbbing painfully at the expression on Lestrade's face.

"I don't have weaknesses," he murmured. "I cannot afford to."

Lestrade's jaw clenched and he turned away, his eyes closing for a brief moment as a myriad of emotions flickered across his face. Mycroft watched him carefully, his eyes flickering desperately over the familiar lines of the other man's face, the streaks of salt-and-pepper grey that had begun to appear in the man's hair, the wrinkles of his shirt and the small, brown coffee stain that hadn't been there when Mycroft had left earlier. It was all beautiful… _he_ was beautiful.

_I love him_, he mused with a detached sort of calm.

_He needs to go._

"So," Lestrade said finally, his voice strained. "Where does this leave us?"

Mycroft settled back onto his heels and slowly pulled himself to his feet, his fingers still curled comfortingly around the cool handle of his umbrella.

"I will have Anthea take you back to your flat," the eldest Holmes said flatly. "Your belongings should be returned to you by the end of the day. I will have several of my men watch the area around your flat to make sure that you are not put into any danger, and I already have a few agents watching you children and your ex-wife. Do not expect to receive any calls from me in the future. I no longer have need of your… services."

The DI hissed a low curse and scrambled to his feet, his dark eyes suspiciously-bright as he made to tangle his fists in Mycroft's coat. Mycroft stepped away before Lestrade could lay a finger on him, his expression already hardening into the mask that had earned him the title of "Ice Man" in the eyes of most of his co-workers and family members.

"Have a good day, Detective Inspector," he murmured.

*Johnlock*Johnlock*Johnlock*

Sally Donovan didn't want to move.

Someone called out to her nearby, their voice painfully-loud and filled with a laughter that made her want to strangle them. Donovan simply ignored her coworker and bent further over her desk, her slim fingers playing determinedly with a piece of paper that had been slipped onto her desk about a week ago.

_God, I hope it's not something important_, she thought dully.

"Sally?"

Donovan stiffened at the sound of Anderson's voice and slowly lifted her head. Her eyes narrowed when she saw the dark haired man perched casually on the corner of her desk, his brown eyes watching her carefully over his large, bird-like nose.

"You've been here a while," he observed.

Donovan shrugged, trying to ignore the toxic mix of guilt, annoyance, and regret that rose up inside of her at the sound of her former lover's voice.

"I have work to do," she replied flatly.

Anderson merely raised his eyebrows and glanced down at the paper that was quickly being reduced to a wrinkled mess beneath her calloused fingers.

"Yes, I can see that," he muttered. "I never knew that laundry lists were so important to you."

Donovan blinked and focused on the paper in front of her for the first time, her cheeks flushing slightly when she realized that Anderson was right.

_At least it's not something important_, she thought wryly.

"Just leave me alone, Anderson," she whispered.

She heard him sigh and stiffened as one of his cool, spindly hands came to rest lightly on the back of her blouse, his fingers brushing across her skin in gentle circles.

"Is this about the freak's companion?" he asked quietly.

Sally stiffened and shot Anderson a fierce glare.

"Don't call him that," she snapped, only half surprised by the extent of her anger. "Don't you fucking dare. Do you have any idea what he's lost today? God, I've never… I never thought I would see someone so broken…" Her voice trailed off and she turned back to her desk, a tiny, harsh smile flickering across her features when Anderson hastily removed his hand.

"I'm… sorry," he whispered slowly.

"Just get away," she sighed. "Leave me alone."

Donovan didn't allow herself to relax until Anderson's footsteps had faded away, her sharp eyes fixed determinedly on the dull black phone that had been tucked into the corner of her desk beside her computer. Strange, it almost looked like there was a call coming in…

The phone began to ring.

Donovan groaned and reached out to lift the phone out of its cradle, her mouth twisting as she tried to answer in a voice that could at least pass as normal.

"What do you need?" she demanded, not even bothering to give the normal greeting that had been drilled into her over the years.

There was a pause broken by the crackled sounds of breathing and, if Donovan listened carefully, the distant clinks of china on wood.

"Is this… is this Sally Donovan?" a woman's voice asked carefully, somehow managing to sound bold and hesitant at the same time.

Donovan replied in the affirmative, her heart already pounding with the first stirrings of adrenaline as her body prepared itself for another case.

"My name is Elizabeth Lyon," the other woman murmured. "Liz, if you like. I saw you at the- at the building today."

Donovan flinched despite herself and tightened her grip on the phone.

"What's your point?" she demanded.

"I was just wondering how many… how many bodies you found at the sight?"

"That's classified-."

"Please," the woman interrupted, her voice suddenly desperate. "Please, I have to know. I told him not to go, I told him to just let it go but he said that he needed to, that he owed it to that detective bloke and his doctor, and he _told_ me that he would be fine because he knew how to get out- he knows these sorts of things, you know? But it's already been six hours and I haven't heard from him, and I- I have to know…"

Donovan frowned and straightened up in her seat, her mind reeling.

"Three," she said finally. "We found three bodies in the rubble."

Another pause. Then: "Did you look… below the building?"

Donovan froze and lowered the phone from her ear for a moment before carefully pressing it against the side of her head again, her jaw working.

"What do you mean… below?" she asked finally.

There was a strangled sigh of relief from the other side of the line, followed by a breathless sort of laugh.

"Meet me at the rubble at midnight," the woman murmured. "Bring help, if you wish, but only one or two other people. Don't be late, lives may depend on it."

"I- What?"

The call ended without another word from the other side, leaving Donovan clutching onto the smooth, cool plastic of an aging phone. After a moment, she pushed away from her desk and grabbed her coat, her long legs already carrying her with a surprising speed out the door of the Met. Someone called out to her but she ignored them, not even bothered by the intense gaze that she could feel burning into the back of her neck before the door slammed shut behind her.

Her cellphone was in her hand almost before she had slipped into the driver's seat of her car, its screen already lit up with a familiar number.

Gregory Lestrade answered after three rings, his voice dull, weary, and rough with an angry sort of sadness that Sally was painfully familiar with.

"What do you want, Sally?" he demanded wearily.

"Where are you?" she shot back.

"My flat. What-?"

"I'm coming there," she snapped. "Are you dressed?"

"I look like shit, but yeah."

"Good. Stay dressed, we're going out."

**Hey guys! Okay, I am really, **_**really**_** sorry that this took so long to get up… But thank you for being patient and not killing me! **** Anyways, let me know what you guys think, you know the drill. And thanks sooo much to all the people who have read/reviewed this story. You guys rock!**


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Sherlock was waiting for him in his bedroom, his slim shoulders squared with determination beneath his usual black coat and navy blue scarf. His icy eyes were dry beneath his curly dark hair, although if one looked closely there seemed to be a thin rim of red around his normally-blue pupils. Mycroft raised his eyebrows at his younger brother, his chest still aching from Gregory's departure.

"I am assuming that you heard everything," he murmured.

Sherlock shot him a half-contemptuous glance, his expression surprisingly sympathetic.

"You know what we have to do, then," the younger Holmes mused.

Mycroft nodded stiffly, his thin fingers nearly white around his umbrella.

"I take it that you would be… adverse to having assistance from my men?" he asked casually.

Sherlock grimaced at the thought, his lips curling into a fragile half-smile that sent a pang of guilt and regret through Mycroft's heart.

"We could have used assistance from Lestrade," he pointed out casually. "You could always apologize to him, and-."

"No," Mycroft interrupted sharply.

The smile shattered as easily as it had appeared, leaving behind a lost sort of glare that Mycroft hadn't seen since their father had left years ago.

"You will patch things up with Lestrade when all of this is over," the detective ordered quietly.

"I wasn't planning on it," Mycroft replied coolly.

"Adjust your plans!" Sherlock barked, his pale features flushed with fury. "You took John away from me- you've already failed me once today, Mycroft, do _not_ fail me again. Do _not_ take another friend away from me due to your own stupidity and _weakness_."

Mycroft forced himself not to flinch at Sherlock's words and deliberately relaxed his grip on the handle of his umbrella.

"My relationship with Gregory should not have had any impact on your ability to work with him," he objected calmly.

Sherlock sneered and shoved past his brother towards the stairs, his clenched fists buried deep within his pockets.

"You are a fool, brother," he snapped over his shoulder, his voice tinged with the faintest hint of sadness. "Grab your coat and leave your phone. We're going out."

"Where?" Mycroft called wearily, his body already moving to follow his younger brother.

"Drury Lane. There is a young lady living there who has some information for us."

"Is she at home, then?"

Sherlock paused inches from the door to the British Government's townhouse and glanced back at his brother, his expression scathing.

"Does it matter?"

*Johnlock*Johnlock*Johnlock*

"… Are you sure about this, then?"

Sally Donovan bit back a sharp comment and shot a half-hearted glare towards the man at her side, her brow furrowing at the weary, devastated look in Detective Inspector Lestrade's brown eyes. The older Yarder had worn the same expression when Sally had arrived at his flat barely five minutes after her departure from the Yard, although he had refused to talk when she had questioned him about it.

_Probably had a domestic with the freak's brother_, she mused absently. _I told him it was a bad idea to get involved with that lot._

_Look at what happened to John._

A half-familiar pang of guilt and sorrow went through her at the thought of the kindhearted doctor that had followed Sherlock Holmes like a devoted guard dog, always ready to lash out at anyone that so much as looked at the detective the wrong way. Greg was the same when it came to Mycroft, she realized dully, protective in a way that Anderson had never been protective of her.

What was it about those freaks that made people so devoted to them?

Her foot caught on a piece of rubble, nearly sending her sprawling onto the charred ground. Lestrade caught her automatically with a low grunt, his narrowed eyes sweeping warily across the darkened ruins of what had once been a building.

"Should've brought a torch," he muttered.

"I didn't want to risk it," Sally hissed back. "Don't know if someone is watching the area or not, and I don't want our… informant to see us before we see her."

"Now tha's not very nice, is it?"

Sally flinched and whirled around in the direction of the voice, a low hiss of surprise and pain breaking through her lips when a bright light slammed into her eyes. Beside her, she heard Lestrade bite out a low curse and reach for the pistol at his hip, only to stop when a sad chuckle reached them from behind the light.

"I thought Yarders were suppos'd ta ask before they shoot," the new girl called pointedly. She lowered the light of the torch in her hand to ground in front of them, allowing Sally to catch a glimpse of a small, petite woman with fiery red hair. Her short, curvy legs were clad in tight-fitting black leggings, and the oversized leather jacket that was wrapped around her slim shoulders only made her seem smaller in the dim light.

The woman winked at Lestrade, her full lips curling into a half-hearted smirk as she took in the two Yarders.

"Hm, good ta see you listened ta me," she murmured. "An' he's a good choice. You have fine taste, ma'am."

"T-thank you," Sally stuttered, confused. "I- Why did you call us here?"

The woman cocked her head to the side, her smirk fading slightly into a look of innocent curiosity.

"Why did you come?" she countered.

"You mentioned that there was a place beneath the building, yeah?" Lestrade demanded sharply, his fingers still wrapped securely around the butt of his pistol.

The woman nodded slowly, looking slightly disappointed.

"You told 'im, then?" she muttered. "Shame. I like ta be the one ta explain things… Ah, well, saves time, I suppose. I'm Liz, just so you know," she added. "Liz Lyon. My boy Jack came ta help that doctor of yours. If he had died, you would've found his body in the rubble."

"What makes you think that we didn't?" Lestrade snapped.

"There were only three bodies found," Sally whispered. "This Jack… he would have made four."

Liz nodded and turned away, her small feet carefully picking their way through the rubble. Sally scrambled after her, dimly noting that Lestrade was hurrying to keep up. The red head hurried towards the center of the rubble, her torch sweeping frantically across the ground in front of her in search of some sign that only she seemed to be aware of. Sally swore under her breath as she struggled to stay close to the other woman, her boots catching on pieces of charred rock and metal every few seconds. Lestrade didn't seem to be doing any better, his rough voice rising every few minutes or so in muffled oaths and curses.

"You know, if she actually told us what the hell she was looking for, we might be able to help," he grumbled.

Sally didn't reply, her dark eyes focused intently on the small figure that was skipping agilely through the rubble. Suddenly, Liz froze and cried out in triumph, her hazel eyes glittering in the light of her torch as she turned to look at the Scotland Yarders that were scrambling after her.

"Here!" she called out.

Sally skidded to a halt next to the smaller woman, her dark eyes flickering over the small pile of stones, dirt and scrap metal that had apparently fascinated her companion.

"Wha-?" she started.

Liz huffed in annoyance and shoved Sally out of the way, her small hands already tugging at the stones and dirt. After a few moments, Lestrade fell to his knees beside her and yanked away several slivers of scrap metal, his brown eyes lifting to Sally's with a challenging stare that didn't quite erase the weary heartbreak in his eyes.

Sally groaned in defeat and knelt down next to him, silently mourning the nails that she had just gotten done yesterday.

A large stone slab rested at the bottom of the pile, its charred corners barely covering the edges of a large hole. Sally stiffened and leaned closer to the hole, even as Liz nearly threw herself towards it and screamed out Jack's name. The Yarders drew closer to the small woman, their ears straining to hear an answer.

A low scuffling sound reached their ears, followed by a faint, hoarse call of "Lizzy?"

"Jack!" Liz cried, her voice cracking in relief. She struggled to push the stone slab away from the hole, her body stiffening when Lestrade placed a gentle hand on her shoulder and carefully pulled her away.

"Jack, this is Greg Lestrade," he called into the hole. "Your friend here called my friend and I and asked us for help. Are you hurt?"

"I think me arm's broken, but I'm alright," Jack called back, his tone suddenly wary. "The doctor is worse off, though."

"What doctor?" Lestrade demanded sharply. Sally leaned in closer to him, her heart pounding frantically in her chest.

"Doctor John Watson," Jack shouted roughly. "Sherlock Holmes's friend. He's alive, but he's barely conscious. I don' think he knows where he is, to be honest."

Sally fell back from the hole, her fingers fumbling towards her pocket in search of her phone as Lestrade and Liz continued to push against the stone slab in an effort to move it.

"Sally," Lestrade grunted. "Call an ambulance, or-."

"No," Liz interrupted sharply. "He'll know if we call anyone in. We'll need to bring 'em up ourselves and drive 'em ta… ta…"

"Bart's," Sally broke in automatically. "The frea- Sherlock he, he has an associate at Bart's, right?"

"She works in the mortuary," Lestrade huffed.

"Don't care," Sally snapped. She scrambled back to the duo's side and added her own strength to the battle against the slab, her thoughts flying back to the detective that had stared down at John Watson's pistol with a devastated expression that nearly broke her heart.

_He needs to know_, she thought frantically. _I have to tell him…_

**Hi! I'm really sorry for the delay here, but there has been so much stuff going on… yeah, it's been awfully awesome… I guess. Actually, I graduate tonight, so consider this my graduation present to you guys? (Eh, it makes sense to me ;)) Anyways, thank you so much for reading/reviewing this fic and please tell me what you think so far, please? You can just yell "Bored!" and shoot a wall if you want (not literally!). Also, I'm thinking about joining tumblr, so if any one has any advice, please let me know!**


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

"…Exactly how much longer were you planning on messing with that doorknob?"

Sherlock huffed irritably and glared up at Mycroft, his fingers tightening reflexively around the lock-picking kit in his hands.

"What, you think that you could do better?" he sneered half-heartedly, not quite able to insert the proper amount of contempt into his voice as he normally would have.

_Perhaps I'm losing my touch_, he thought absently. _Possibly for the best, though… Jo- _He_ always hated it when got too smug._

_John…_

"Move," Mycroft huffed, his spindly hands already shoving the handle of his umbrella into Sherlock's suddenly-empty hands.

Sherlock instinctively scrambled out of the way and watched his older brother crouch in front of the scuffed and peeling wooden door that was hardly visible in the light of several filthy overhead lights. The elder Holmes spared a brief, scathing glance for the lock-picking kit that had been dropped onto the floor before he rolled up his sleeves and set to work. Sherlock watched him silently, unable to stop himself from musing that, if anyone of their acquaintance had happened to walk in at that exact moment, they would hardly have been able to recognize his suave and sophisticated older brother. Mycroft Holmes had been quick to abandon his customary suit moments before they slipped out of his townhouse, opting instead for a pair of worn, dark blue jeans that probably belonged to Lestrade, a pair of worn loafers that should probably be replaced, and an oversized dove-grey woolen sweater that reminded him of J-.

"Done."

Sherlock jolted gratefully out of his thoughts and glanced briefly at the half-open door, his eyes flickering over the smug smirk on Mycroft's face before they focused on the dark, musty interior of the apartment.

"Hm, doesn't seem like the owners care much for cleaning," Sherlock mused.

"Does anyone?" Mycroft retorted wearily. "Sherlock. What are we looking for here?"

"My informants have told me that Jack Sheppard and Elizabeth Lyon bought this apartment less than a month ago," Sherlock recited flatly. "Probably using the money they made on one of their assignments- although I'm not sure how well members of a crime ring are paid, I'm willing to bet that a maid and a carpenter don't make enough legally to afford a flat on Drury Lane. Given that both Lyon and Sheppard have made enough mistakes to warrant removal from the ring, there is a chance that one of them was careless enough to leave something lying around that could lead us to someone higher up in the ring."

He paused automatically at the end of his explanation, a sharp pang of grief going through him when he realized that he was waiting for praise that would never come.

_John…_

"Sherlock," Mycroft interrupted gently. "Do you have any idea when either of them will be back?"

"No."

Sherlock sensed rather than heard Mycroft's exasperated sigh as he slipped into the room, his sharp blue eyes sweeping across the shadowy shapes of furniture, scattered bits and pieces of clothing, and the discarded remains of old pizza boxes and empty beer cans.

"Charming place," Mycroft observed quietly.

"Shut up," Sherlock snapped. "I need to think."

Mycroft snorted but refrained from saying anything else, his quiet footsteps already moving towards the nearest window. Sherlock did his best to ignore the presence of his brother and bent to retrieve the nearest pile of crumpled papers, his lip curling in disappointment as his tired, grieving brain took in the usual lists of groceries and store receipts. With a low huff of annoyance, Sherlock tossed the papers aside and started to make his way towards the cluttered desk that had been shoved carelessly into a corner.

"Check the island in the kitchen," he called over his shoulder. "Most people keep important papers there if they don't shove them into pigeonholes first."

"…Young Frankenstein is playing," Mycroft mused quietly.

"What?" Sherlock demanded sharply.

"Gregory wanted to see it," the eldest Holmes continued absently, apparently unaware that he was speaking aloud. "I… I had hoped to get us tickets later, after our schedules became a little less… clustered." He chuckled humorlessly. "It's a shame, really. I had actually been looking forward to watching him laugh."

"Do you intend to stand there moaning over your lost love like a teenage girl for the rest of the night, or are you actually going to help me?" Sherlock snarled, his voice sharper than he had originally intended.

Mycroft stiffened and shot his brother something that could almost be defined as a hurt look before he moved silently into the kitchen. Sherlock watched him disappear around the corner before returning to the desk, not quite able to ignore the tiny hint of guilt that the older man's pain inspired within him.

"You… You could always take him to see the play after this is over," he suggested quietly. "To apologize… or something."

"Do you really think that that would work?" Mycroft called back absently. It was obvious from his tone that he wasn't truly considering Sherlock's suggestion; still, Sherlock supposed that it didn't hurt to keep trying.

"J-John," Sherlock croaked, silently hating himself for the way his voice caught on the dead man's name. "He used to… do that sort of thing with his girlfriends whenever he messed something up. Of course, it was usually my fault," he added with something that could almost be called a wry smile. "I was always calling him away from dates to work on cases or something similar- although for some odd reason he didn't really agree that buying milk constituted case work."

"Can't imagine why," Mycroft muttered. Something heavy shifted in the kitchen, followed almost immediately by an irritated sigh from the eldest Holmes. "Really, do they have to make it so obvious?"

"Find anything?" Sherlock called.

"Yes. Apparently our friends here are fond of hiding things beneath loose floorboards."

Sherlock snorted derisively. "Typical."

"Sherlock," Mycroft murmured, his voice unexpectedly gentle as he exited the kitchen with a handful of carefully-folded papers. "Did you ever tell John…?"

"You know that I didn't," he snapped irritably. The consulting detective snatched the papers out of Mycroft's hands without another word, his eyes widening in grim excitement when he saw the neatly-written name that had been scrawled at the bottom of the page. "Oh, but this is perfect…"

"What is it?"

"A letter," Sherlock explained shortly. "Written by the man who approached one of our friends in the first place. Not quite high enough for my taste, but we should be able to convince him to give us some more names if we make him realize how little effort it would take on our part to have him arrested."

"Sher-."

The door creaked.

Sherlock dove beneath the desk without even sparing a glance for his brother, his ears straining to catch the tiny whispers of sound that told him that Mycroft had hidden as well. His blood sang with adrenaline as several heavier footsteps made their way into the room, his mind urging him to risk catching a glimpse of the intruders even as a small voice that sounded suspiciously like John ordered him to stay hidden, to stay safe.

_Don't do it, don't take the risk, it's not worth it, Sherlock, it's not-_

_It's for John._

Sherlock gritted his teeth and risked a quick glance over the top of the desk, his eyes widening in surprise when he saw Detective Inspector Jonathan Wild stride into the room behind a small gang of armed thugs. Wild's dark eyes flickered across the room with a shrewd sort of boredom, his hands tucked casually into the pockets of his trousers beneath an ill-fitting suit jacket.

_Probably hiding a gun_, Sherlock's brain noted dully.

"Search the apartment," Wild ordered curtly. "I want to make sure those two idiots didn't leave anything behind that could cause trouble."

"What exactly are we looking for, sir?" one of the thugs demanded.

Wild shrugged and stepped closer to the deck in the corner, causing Sherlock to slip back behind the rough wood before the DI could catch sight of him.

"Everything," he replied curtly. "Anything that will stand out to investigators when they come in tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" another thug repeated in surprise.

"Of course," Wild snapped dismissively. "Sheppard and Lyon have managed to avoid justice for far too long- it's time at least one of them gets their due."

"Which one?" a third thug asked absently.

"Does it matter?" Wild sneered. "There's enough- wait."

Sherlock stiffened as Wild drew closer, his fingers curling into tight fists at his sides. He heard the DI draw in a sharp, almost amused breath, felt the slight vibration against the floorboards as Wild took another step forwards…

Mycroft's voice rose in a sharp yelp of surprise as he was dragged out from his own hiding place, his normally-immaculate hair disheveled and dusty.

"Mycroft Holmes," Wild mused with quiet amusement. "It is Mycroft, isn't it? I would hate to mix you up with your brother again."

Silence. Sherlock's lips twitched slightly at the thought of the icy glare that Mycroft was probably sending in the direction of the DI, his mind already whirling as he tried to figured out exactly why the Yarder was there in the first-

_No…_

"My my," Wild continued wryly. "You do clean up nicely, don't you? Tell me, is this how you look whenever you visit Lestrade? Or is he more of a suit person? Or perhaps there is another fetish of his that you like to indulge… I do believe that you would look quite fetching in a dress, Mr. Holmes."

Quiet chuckles echoed throughout the room as Sherlock's vision went red, his muscles aching as he forced himself to stay still.

_So obvious… How did I not __**see**__?_

"Is Lestrade with you now, Mr. Holmes?" Wild asked quietly. "No offense, but you don't really seem like the type to go solo on a mission. Is he hiding as well?"

"I am alone."

"I doubt that."

"'Ere!" Someone shouted inches away from Sherlock's hiding place.

Sherlock flinched automatically, a low hiss of pain and irritation breaking through his lips when his elbow smashed into the lower corner of the desk. Someone's fingers tangled themselves in his hair and yanked him out from behind the desk and threw him painfully onto the floor. He heard Mycroft's sharp intake of breath and raised his head in time to watch Wild's eyebrows rise in slight surprise.

"Oh," he muttered with the smallest hint of disappointment. "Your brother. Well, I suppose we can work with that, can't we?"

"You-," Mycroft hissed, only freeze when the cool metal of a gun was pressed against Sherlock's skull.

"Dull," Sherlock muttered underneath his breath.

"Sorry?" Wild asked.

"Repetitive," Sherlock tried again. He raised his eyebrows at the DI and managed to give the man a disparaging look, even as every fiber of his being ached to launch itself at the man that had taken John away from him. "I'm the world's only consulting detective and one of the brightest minds in the world. Do you really think that this is the first time that I've had a gun pointed at my head?"

"Sherlock," Mycroft hissed.

"You're tough, aren't you?" Wild mused quietly. "And arrogant, or so I've heard. It's a shame I never got to meet that doctor friend of yours- I would have loved to see the only man on earth that could put up with you for an extended period of time."

"Don't," Sherlock snarled. "Do not speak of him."

Wild shrugged and turned away with a casual wave of his hand. Sherlock watched Mycroft relax slightly on the other side of the room as the gun was moved away from his head, only to see his brother stiffen again when something hard slammed into the back of Sherlock's head and sent him sprawling onto the ground.

"I don't know if you've heard this before, Sherlock Holmes," Wild called absently, his voice echoing strangely in Sherlock's head as shadows began to gather at the edge of his vision. "But your brother here is actually of more use to me than you are. Or, rather…"

A gunshot rang out above Sherlock's head, the sharp sound sending a brief stab of pain through his aching head even as his vision finally went black. He heard the tell-tale thump of a body hitting the ground mere feet away from him, followed by the barely-audible whisper of Wild's voice in his ear.

"He's of more use to me when he's _dead_."

*Johnlock*Johnlock*Johnlock*

"How is he?"

Molly Hooper half-turned and shot Sally an exasperated look, her brown eyes nearly red with exhaustion and stress beneath the strands of wild red hair that had managed to escape from the messy bun at the base of her neck.

"He's fine," she whispered. "Although I still have no idea how he managed to avoid a concussion, and it's a miracle that all of his bones are intact… I imagine that the other man managed to shield him from most of the impact when they fell."

"Are you sure?" Sally pressed. "Sheppard said that John didn't know where he was, and he was unconscious for at least three hours. Is that normal?"

"I'm telling you, he's fine," Molly snapped. "And I'd like to meet the man who wouldn't be disoriented after waking up in a black hole beneath a pile of rubble."

Sally bit back a sharp retort and stalked out of the tiny hospital room that the mortician had managed to place John in, her shoulders slumping in unconscious relief when she heard John quietly object to something that Molly was doing.

Lestrade was pacing in the morgue when she found him, apparently oblivious to the covered corpse that was laid out on a cart beside him. The DI cursed softly and wrenched his cellphone away from his ear, his dark eyes narrowed with concern and irritation.

"_Damn_ you, Mycroft," he snapped. "If that moron doesn't pick up the phone, I swear…"

"Have you tried phoning the fre- Sherlock?" Donovan asked hesitantly. "He would probably be more willing to talk to you."

Sally winced apologetically at the hurt look that Lestrade shot her in response to that statement, her hands raised in a small gesture of surrender.

"I tried his mobile first," Lestrade admitted gruffly. "Believe me, I don't want to talk to Mycroft any more than he wants to talk to me-."

"Well that's a lie," Sally scoffed.

He shot her a warning look and started to pace again, his expression twisting when his fingers inadvertently brushed against the edge of the corpse's sheet.

"Neither of them are answering," he growled. "And Mrs. Hudson hasn't seen Sherlock since he left to pick me up from prison- she didn't even know about the misunderstanding with John, thank God…"

"What about Mycroft's assistant, what's-her-name?" Sally suggested helpfully. "She keeps track of him, right?"

"Most of the time," A new voice broke in, causing both Yarders to whirl around.

A dark-haired woman clad in a perfectly-tailored grey blazer and skirt strode into the room, her brow furrowed with the barest hint of concern above unreadable brown eyes.

"Anthea?" Lestrade called out in surprise, his fingers tightening around the mobile that was still clutched in his hand.

"Detective Inspector," she replied carefully. "I see you're doing well."

Lestrade snorted harshly and tucked the mobile into his pocket. "That depends on your definition of 'well'. I feel like shit."

"I can assure you that you aren't the only one," she replied tersely. "We haven't been this alert since 2009."

"What happened in 2009?" Sally blurted out without thinking.

Anthea spared her a brief, simpering smile. "Things."

"Anthea," Lestrade interrupted. "Where is Mycroft? I need to… talk to him, he needs to get a hold of Sherlock and-."

"I'm afraid that I cannot help you with that problem, Detective Inspector," Anthea admitted wryly. "For you see, I myself am dealing with a similar… issue."

Lestrade tensed and took an involuntary step forward, his eyes widening with the first hints of a fear that Sally could not remember seeing before.

"What are you talking about?" he asked slowly.

"Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes have disappeared," Anthea replied tersely. "They arrived at a flat on Drury Lane several hours ago and have not been seen since. Evidence suggests…" The woman took a small, steadying breath before continuing, her unreadable façade cracking for the briefest of moments to reveal raw panic. "Evidence suggests that they were apprehended by a small group of assailants and taken to another corner of London. Specialists are working as we speak to lock on to their exact location."

"…What aren't you telling me?" Lestrade demanded after a long moment of silence, his eyes locked onto the brunette with a startling intensity.

Anthea clenched her jaw and met the DI's gaze head on.

"There was blood found in the sitting room of the flat," she whispered. "It has been matched to Mycroft Holmes. Evidence… suggests that he was shot."

Lestrade staggered as if he had been struck, a low moan of pain breaking through his parted lips. Sally stepped forward instinctively to steady him, her own muscles stiffening in surprise when she felt him tremble beneath her touch.

"Where is he?" Lestrade demanded roughly.

"We are working on a location," Anthea repeated carefully.

"And when you find it," he whispered, his muscles tensing once more beneath Sally's hands. "You will tell me, and you will let me go in there so that I can _personally_ ensure that whoever dared to touch Mycroft Holmes will not live to see another day."

"You'll have to let me go too, then," John Watson's voice called.

Sally turned to stare as the army doctor limped carefully into the room, his one hand fastened reluctantly around Molly's arm as she sought to steady him. John glared at the other people in the room, his eyes flashing with determination beneath the his ruffled honey-brown hair.

"I'm going," he insisted with quiet determination. "And I swear to God, if any of you try to stop me I will lock you in a closet with the corpses."

"I _knew_ that that was where he kept the corpses," Sally muttered despite herself, her cheeks burning in embarrassment when the rest of the residents of the room shot her looks ranging from disapproval to distant amusement.

Lestrade grunted and tossed John his mobile, his lips curving up in approval when the doctor caught it without thinking.

"Fine," he muttered. "Donovan, get him a gun. Anthea, I'm going to need that location now."

"It's already here," she informed him serenely. "Will you be needing the snipers?"

"Yes," John and Lestrade said at the same time, their mouths twisting into savage grins that sent chills down Sally's spine.

Anthea merely nodded with a look of silent approval.

"I will have them in position in ten minutes," she informed them.

"Make it five," Lestrade snapped.

She smiled.

"Two."

…**.Hi~ So, I am very, very sorry that this took so long. I won't make any excuses, because honestly I feel like that would be very annoying, but hopefully this chapter sort of makes it up to you? Maybe? Also, I am sorry for anything that doesn't match up here medically. I'm not a nurse or a doctor, and I don't plan on becoming one, so… yeah, my medical knowledge really sucks and I'm sorry if I made any really bad mistakes.**

**So, yeah, once again I apologize for the long wait, and I will try to update sooner, okay? Thank you sooooo much to all of the people who have read/reviewed this story, and please let me know what you think of this chapter, okay? You guys all rock!**


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